


Pink Like Your Fingers In My [Sugarbowl]

by Petronelle



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/F, idk i just wanted to write something gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 22:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14628216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronelle/pseuds/Petronelle
Summary: She hurts like bruises, and you're embarrassed that you think the marks she leaves behind are beautiful





	Pink Like Your Fingers In My [Sugarbowl]

**Author's Note:**

> Posting from mobile, I'll correct the formatting when I get home next week! Sorry!

At some point in your life, you might find yourself passionately kissing The City's sixth most important financial advisor in an empty room in a peculiarly foreboding and hostile hospital. You might find yourself bedevilled most improperly by Esmé Squalor's rakish smirk. Perhaps you may find charm in the almost pleading gasp, followed abruptly by a quiet hiss of dissent ("Darling, you're wrinkling the Chanel; this is natural unbleached silk crepe de chine and you know that steaming the creases out will be horrendous for everybody involved."). Regardless of the motivations that lead one into any sort of tryst with Esmé Squalor, I cannot say that this is a terribly wise situation to stumble into, though for Olivia Caliban it was less stumbling and more quiet acceptance of Esmé's grasp upon her arm as she hauled her into the room.  
Olivia's general lack of concern for the natural unbleached silk crepe de chine as she pushed Esmé's skirt up her thighs would have bothered Esmé considerably more had Olivia not provided a distraction in biting Esmé's lip hard enough to draw blood as they kissed.  
"Try not to overindulge so soon, you'll spoil your appetite," Esmé breathed, placing her own hands over Olivia's, and gently sliding them out of her clothing. Despite rolling her eyes in a terribly blasé way at Esmé's remark, Olivia tried not to look too hard at the way the tendons in Esmé's wonderful, beautiful hands danced as she moved her fingers. Esmé's hands were the godhead in womanhood, all at once beautiful and terrible as perishing saints, as the gold in gruesome frescos. Olivia loved them as much tracing the lip of a sugarbowl as she did when they were closed around her throat and squeezing, as she did when they were inside her. She would fall to her knees for those hands, to be blessed by them, to find them cradling her as Esmé's patrician face gazed at her with a distant, beatific expression. She dreamt of when those hands found the sheets and gripped them, when they tangled in her hair, the bonewhite peaks of her knuckles glinting in the dark as she pulled Olivia close and purred and trembled and dissolved into the rippling velvet of a quickening. As she collapsed in Olivia's arms, the flush creeping upward across her breasts and chest, her eyes bright as morning, she was as sweet and whole and lovely as Agnes of Rome but for only a moment; in a breath the innocence was gone and her satisfaction restored the slight edge of cold thoughtfulness to her face. The sharp steel of her expression filled Olivia with a kind of self-loathing desire; she did not understand how, knowing what she knew about Esmé Gigi Genevieve Squalor, she still wanted her in every possible way, with a desire so intense it felt black in her veins. As Esmé rolled over on top of her, Olivia turned her face away to avoid Esmé's kiss, full of sudden disgust with herself. As Esmé slipped her hand between Olivia's thighs she laughed softly.  
"Your face tells me you don't want this," she whispered, withdrawing her hand and licking her fingers. "But something else tells me you do."  
Olivia fought the urge to slap Esmé's lovely, terrible face, and instead refused to entertain her. As Esmé moved to part her thighs and dipped her head low to kiss a starry path along the ridge of her hipbone and down into her, Olivia let out a soft moan. She felt the soft sibilation of Esmé's quiet laughter against her skin. Olivia tried not to think too hard about just how much satisfaction Esmé got out of teasing noises out of her. She needn't have tried; Olivia was fairly sure she couldn't put much deep thought into anything at that moment, as Esmé kissed all of her that was pink, her tongue tracing a strange, discordant poetry that made her hips tremble in the most unbecoming way possible. There was a serendipity in every stroke, where for a moment, the calligraphy of Esmé's kiss seemed exploratory and halting, before suddenly becoming so refined that Olivia found herself unable to keep from saying Esmé's name over and over, a litany, spitting the syllables into prayer beads that pearlesced in misty gasps.  
"Darling, shush. Remember," Esmé whispered, lifting her head to look at Olivia with a strange, vampish darkness in her gaze. "The world is quiet here."


End file.
